A Beautiful Asymmetry
by Sisyphean Effort
Summary: "What a terrible, callous little man!" A short story that is an off-shoot of the longer story "Painted Truths." A mix of Xing, art, and alchemy. OC's only-sorry, folks!
1. Chapter 1

_I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist or any of its characters (even though those characters are only very briefly mentioned here). This story is about 2 characters I made up, & is an off-shoot of my story "Painted Truths." It is from a scene I left "on the cutting room floor," so to speak, that would have appeared at the end of chapter 10. I've fleshed out the background and made it a little bigger, and, well, this is the result. . ._

A Beautiful Asymmetry

Chapter 1: Blood and Iron

_Chiaro_

He awoke to a numbing pain.

The last time he had dared to open his eyes, he had been inside the palace and there had been blood everywhere. A deep, rusty vermilion that glistened and ran in the retreating dusk of the sunset. _Why, that's almost beautiful, _he thought, staring at the beguiling splashes of color on the cold gray stones before him. Then he remembered. It was his blood everywhere, and if he looked--and he absolutely refused to look--he would see that there was only a bloody stump where his left hand had been. Pain, pain was dancing over his nerves, banging on his synapses with the insistence of a drum. The blood, the pain, all of it: it eventually became too much too bear, and Chiaro felt himself sinking again, drawn into a blackened net where regret--regret and remorse and sacrifice--could not touch him. He closed his eyes and fell.

The next time he opened his eyes--blackened and swollen, he knew for sure--he found himself staring at a gleaming pair of black lace-up boots. He could hear, as well as feel the warmth of, a low, crackling fire, and he realized then that he was back in his own studio. So he wasn't dead after all! What a small mercy! He could feel a terrible laughter, hard and edged with hysteria, threatening to bubble up to the surface, but his mouth was dry, too choked with his own regret, to sustain it. So he blinked and said nothing. The black boots shifted in front of him, their noise loud and distracting in the deafening silence of his darkened studio room. Then a voice over him said:

"You don't have the stomach for this kind of sacrifice, dear painter."

Vida, then. The Iron Maiden. He had not spoken to the palace arms master since that time he had asked to paint her and she had thrown a bottle at his head. Why was she here? He didn't have the strength, the will to ask that question. He watched, motionless, as those shiny boots moved from his line of sight, the iron plates on her boot heels loud, clicking, as she retreated toward the direction of his front door. She was leaving him then. But there was a question, a very, very important question that he had to ask, that had to be spoken, before she left. There was broken glass, a grating, rasping sound in his voice as he forced himself to ask:

"Did Edward make it?"

The clicking on the floor promptly stopped. A whispering, a rustle of silken robes. Chiaro waited. Then:

"The blond alchemist is gone."

Relief bloomed through the artist like morning glory: bloomed, flowered, and then promptly wilted, died on the stem. Edward was safe. Everything had went according to plan. Edward was safe, far away, long gone, never to be seen again. So. . .

Where did that leave Chiaro?

The painter felt the first press of tears as Vida's words echoed through the bereft cavern of his pained, overloaded mind. _"You don't have the stomach for this kind of sacrifice. . ." _The horror of that sentence was that is was true, so completely and utterly true, and Chiaro felt defenseless, unmanned against the onslaught of emotion which now assailed him. _Don't cry in front of her. _A different kind of relief washed through him as he heard the familiar squeak of his front door open and then close. So, the Maiden had left. _Good, _thought Chiaro, _leave me to the peace of my own sanctified misery. _And then another thought occurred to him then as well:

_What a terrible, callous woman._

* * *

_Vida_

_2 years earlier. . ._

_What a terrible, callous little man, _thought Vida.

She had been walking through the palace entry hall, dressed in the black robes and red, white, and black mask that denoted her as part of the emperor's private, elite guard, when she came upon a strange scene.

Newly crowned Emperor Lee, fancying himself a grand patron of the arts, had commissioned an elaborate mural for the long wall of the Imperial Palace's entry hall. Murals-- indeed, all art--held little fascination for Vida, but once she had heard about the subject for the mural, she had felt driven, compelled to go and have a look at it. Vida was first, and foremost, an alchemist, and if alchemy could be deemed a religion, then Vida could be counted as one of its most fervent worshipers. And like a loyal disciple bent on holy pilgrimage, Vida wanted to see firsthand the not-yet-finished mural: a rendering of the dragon's pulse wrapped around the earth, the great and glorious symbol for all of Xing's alchemy.

But there was a loud--and seemingly terrible--argument currently going on in front of the half-painted mural.

There were two men dressed in beige robes: the one, immaculate, with a sweep of high, white hair, standing on the cold stones of the foyer, the other, paint-splattered and in casual disarray, with a long dark pony-tail and goatee, standing high up on the scaffolding before the mural. They were currently shouting at one another, the sounds of their angry, raised voices reverberating through the open space of the grand hall for all to hear.

"Chiaro," pleaded the man with the white hair, known to one and all as the esteemed muralist Gesso Spresato, "I can't have you driving away my other apprentices with that vile mouth of yours. What you said to make Bianco cry like that, well, I can only imagine--but you cannot continue like this. Why, with your gift for rendering people, it's ridiculous! Why do you hate everyone so? If you could but try to get along--"

"--that man is an incompetent jackass!" roared the other painter, his face crimson with rage, his large black eyes darkened with a righteous fury. "His painting is an abomination and I told him so! And I will not stand here and work along side such a creature! I will not do it!" Chiaro jabbed the air with his paintbrush for emphasis, the motion threatening, as if it were in fact, not a brush, but a knife he was holding. He was visibly shaking with rage.

The muralist merely shook his head in defeat. "I know you will not apologize. I won't even bother to ask." A steely look came over the older man's gaze then: "As punishment, you will do both your's and Bianco's part of the mural, even if it means working by lamplight, into the night. Understand?"

The other painter froze and said nothing. Vida watched, from her spot in the entryway, as Gesso shook his head with what seemed like genuine regret. Her masked eyes followed the older man as he turned to go, his head bowed, shoulders sagged in obvious defeat. Then Vida saw something else, something that she did not at all expect:

The moment the older muralist had turned away, the younger painter's lips lifted in an all-too pleased smirk and a very real, very satisfied brightness came over those dark--no longer angry--eyes. He looked jubilant, triumphant, and in that moment Vida realized: this was not punishment for him; he had wanted to do the work by himself all along. Vida found herself staring at his transformed face with a new-found fascination. She had almost forgotten about the mural behind him entirely, the snaking, slithering splash of green of the half-formed dragon that framed him, the blaze of fire that issued from its nostrils so bright, so real, and so very, very appropriate. . .

"What the_ hell_ are you looking at?"

Vida was started out of her reverie, and she realized suddenly that the young painter on the scaffold was looking at her, was in fact, addressing_ her._ And the man was glaring again. "Well?"

Vida found herself rooted into place, and she felt hot, trapped, scorched by the burning flames of that fire-breathing dragon (but which one?). She said nothing. Could, in fact, think of nothing worth saying. She didn't move again until a finely aimed paint brush came flying at her head and she was forced to dodge it. Her mouth fell open in disbelief. She could not believe that the painter had just dared to throw a brush at her! Her--a trained assassin of the imperial guard no less! Vida felt a murderous rage threaten to boil over, and she turned her attention toward the scaffolding, her mind racing, calculating the make-up of the ropes and metal pillars. . .

"Vida, come!"

Vida whirled and found herself face-to-face with Orin, the current palace arms master. She had been so utterly focused on the painter that she had been completely unaware of his silent, stealthy approach. Vida cast one nasty, threatening glance back in the painter's direction, but he did not see it: all his attention, all his being, was focused on the mural. She watched as his paint brush flew across the surface, his movements deft, sure, precise; his eyes narrowed, focused, burning with an unknown intensity. And Vida had but one thought as she followed Orin out of the grand entry hall:

_What a terrible, callous little man._

End chapter 1.

_This little story is dedicated to Just Funning, who encouraged me to post this here (despite the lack of appearances by FMA characters). Thanks for the encouragement, and I hope that one day we'll be able to write something together again._ :)


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Color and Alchemy

_Chiaro _

After a few days, the pain in Chiaro's (non-existent) hand began to ebb. The pain in his soul, however, was an entirely different matter. Lingering doubts and personal regret played assassin to his own spirit, and night after night, he felt himself slipping, sinking into a blackened quagmire that he could not claw his way out of. He had not sketched or painted anything for days. And Art, which had always been his most loyal, trusted friend, now seemed like a traitor to him-the very thing that had lead him to this dark, defeated place. He almost-_almost_-regretted doing Edward's portrait. He made it a point to avoid the yellow ochre and red madder that hid, waiting, in their little clay pots, treating them like hated enemies that were out to ambush him.

So Chiaro sat, slumped again, with his head pressed onto folded arms before his grinding table, a near-empty bottle of whisky, as usual, at his elbow. He found himself staring, eyes glazed and unblinking, into his work table's indentation, to a finely ground portion of bone black that had been left there from several days ago. He thought then of black hair and black boots. And he remembered, on that terrible night when he had awoken back here in his own studio, the image he had seen on the table in front of his couch: sketched into the table's surface with his own charcoal was an array, its presence glaring, alien and out of place, next to an empty bowl. Chiaro had sat up suddenly then and brought a piece of his own hair around: she had changed it back. _What a strange gesture_, Chiaro thought at the time. He was also aware of the fact that the bloodied stump of his left hand had been carefully cleaned and bandaged (though he tried so very hard not to look at it), and he wondered again about Vida. Had she done all this? And if so, then why? That the array was her doing, of that he had no doubt. Chiaro found himself staring at the charcoaled circle on his table, at the calculated rhythm of symbols, very neatly drawn, and thought, _Oh, it's almost like a work of art_. So he did not erase the array. He allowed it to remain on the table.

Black hair and black boots. Red robes. Chiaro found himself thinking of Vida, of the small, unspoken kindness she had done him. How very unlike the so-called "Iron Maiden." It was strange how the world could still sometimes surprise him. Then a thought-no, an inspiration, really-occurred to him. A way to repay that tiny bit of kindness. His mind opened, filled itself with clear, vivid colors: deep, rich violets, silvery blues, and perfect, plum-like purples. He stood up suddenly from his work table, his motions newly re-energized (if a bit sloppy from the whisky). He grabbed a canvas mail pouch from under the table and slung it over his shoulder.

He was going to go out and get some colors. . .

* * *

_Vida_

_1 Year earlier. . . _

It was beautiful.

The mural depicting the dragon's pulse that covered the foyer leading into the Grand Hall was magnificent: large in scope, impressive in color, imposing in its vibrance. Shimmering swirls of emerald green and frosted blue covered most of the wall; the dragon itself was a graceful letter S which curved and coiled around the rounded shape of a floating, water-toned world. Even the dragon's hooked claws, done in gleaming ivory, looked nearly real enough to touch; it was almost three dimensional. One could almost feel the heaving flames that flowed from the creature's nostrils, the tangy brightness of the flames lending it a false warmth that almost-almost- seemed real. Overall, it was grand, elaborate, larger than life. It was the first piece of art that Vida ever loved.

And he was ruining the view.

Vida watched from her post in the entryway, her angry expression mercifully concealed behind her assassin's mask, a lone figure which stood before the mural: the artist himself. _Churlish bastard, _thought Vida. She still had not forgiven him for throwing that paint brush at her. Even after all this time. Vida did not understand how such a surly, unsociable man could create such beauty. It seemed a contemptible contradiction. Vida watched his expression, and was stunned to find that it was a twin to her own: the painter looked angry, was in fact glaring at his own work. It was a look which said, "I would like to take a match to this and burn the whole thing down." Vida did not understand it. And she found-despite her anger, despite her mental protests-once again fascinated, just as she had been that first time she had saw him, sucked in by his odd, contradictory, and seemingly unfathomable, behavior. It drew her like a magnet.

"The emperor!" came the whispered warning hiss from her companion Dewu-her mirror, also black-robed and masked-from his post by the wall opposite from her.

The two of them immediately swept the floor in a deep formal bow as the emperor and his entourage moved past. They were headed for the grand dining hall; for tonight, the emperor was hosting a lavish dinner party. Vida watched from behind her mask as the emperor neared the churlish painter. He hesitated-just barely, slightly-before dropping into a low bow. The emperor nodded in his direction and seemed pleased. For once, Chiaro wasn't running about paint-splattered and barefoot-he was dressed in finely cut robes of silvery blue edged in gold, light-catching brocade. His mandarin collar looked rigid enough to cut glass. He looked expensive, gleaming, put together-not at all how Vida was used to seeing him. And he was one of the members of the dinner party.

Chiaro Scuro was now the official portrait artist to the royal family of Xing.

Vida watched as the assembly filed through the great ornate double doors which lead into the Imperial dining hall. And she saw-in one swift, nearly missed instant-the painter's expression as he glanced back over his shoulder: he looked miserable, horrified, as if he were going to an execution, not a dinner party. _Even more contradiction, _thought Vida. Vida furrowed her eyebrows, and resolved to put those strange looks out of her mind. She was here acting as personal security, and it was pertinent that her mind remain on the task at hand, not on stupid artists.

"Stupid artist," she muttered to herself.

* * *

_Chiaro_

The dinner party was torture.

There was nothing-absolutely nothing-that Chiaro hated more than being forced to interact with other people in a contained, constrained environment. He could feel his lips twitching with the effort to remain silent, to not say anything that would either affront or offend-and he often said things that would offend-anyone. He was here under the emperor's orders only. That threat, and that threat alone was the only reason for his presence here tonight. Because Chiaro, of course, did not socialize with others. He stared down at the dinnerware on the table and considered attempting seppuku on the table with a chopstick, just to be freed from all this unnecessarily imposed misery.

And he hated-_hated_-seeing that damn mural. Its very presence antagonized him. During his apprenticeship (agony, yet again) that mural had been the very bane of his existence. He had fought with the consistency of the egg tempera on a daily basis: the thing was like a jealous mistress that knew, just knew, that he would rather be spending his time with oils, and not with it. He hadn't used the wretched material since. Eggs, he thought, were much better served nice and hot on a plate. And then there was the sticking point of ownership: Chiaro tried, tried with all his being not to care, but it still infuriated him every time he saw Gesso Spresato's signature in the corner of the mural. It was certainly customary for apprentices to fill in large portions of works for their masters, but Chiaro had ended up painting a full three-fourths of the damn thing. Three-fourths! And he had no credit, no share in the ownership! The mural's existence was just that-a lingering, bitter reminder: like a bastard child he could not claim, he felt he either wanted it to disappear from the face of the earth entirely-that, or throw himself protectively in front of the thing and shout to the world what was rightfully his. Yet he could do neither. And so the seeds of bitterness sprouted, sprouted and spread, sowing vines of tangling bitterness, of choking fury. He hated his own work, and, like a festering sin, it was one of the things which he did not, could not, allow himself to do. And so he hated himself for doing it.

"Master Chiaro!"

_Oh shit. _The fates must have been doubly intent on torturing him that night, because Chiaro found that he had been seated next to Luli-the famous actress-and she was grinning from ear to ear at him with a scary, wolfish grin. She was wearing an elaborate hair ornament decorated with peacock feathers: the feathers bobbed and dipped on her head like a live seagull diving for fish. Chiaro felt a corner of his mouth begin to twitch up in a half smile at this image, but Luli, unfortunately, thought that the smile was for her, and she continued on in her girlish, gushing voice:

"Don't you want to paint me?"

_Hell, no. _Luckily, he only thought that, and had the good sense for once to not actually speak the first thought in his head out loud. Luli was the emperor's favorite actress (for the moment) and it would only make trouble for him if he offended her. Actually, it would probably make trouble for him if he dared to offend anyone currently seated at the table.

"I'm afraid that my hand would not be able to do justice to your rather…unique features," Chiaro said as diplomatically as he could muster.

This seemed to please Luli, as she clapped her hands like a child. "I have been told I have a very aristocratic profile."

_Must be the manly jaw and hawk-like nose_, he thought but instead said, "There is a certain nobility to your face, without question."

The actress took a hearty swig of wine and leaned forward, the feathers of her hair ornament tickling Chiaro's face. "Are you sure you won't paint me? I could find ways to make it worth your while."

Suddenly there was a questing hand making its way up Chiaro's thigh. Trying to mask the instant disgust he felt, and probably doing a lousy job at it, the artist shoved away the hand. "Sorry, my dear, but I'm afraid you have nothing to make my soldier salute."

"Oh?" Luli said, looking hurt, but then a strange light dawned in her eyes. "Oh…I see." With a wink, she added, "So many of your profession share similar predilections."

Chiaro realized that she thought he was a homosexual, and he decided to let her think this. It might make the evening more pleasant; if she considered him a lost cause, then perhaps the actress would set her sights on another conquest.

No such luck. Now Luli seemed to think they were girlfriends. "Do you like my hairclip?" she asked, indicating the monstrosity on her head. "A gentleman of your…ilk picked it out for me."

_How he must hate you_, Chiaro thought. "It is quite distinctive."

"Yes, I knew it would get me noticed. I have quite an artistic flair myself, you know. I have considered taking up painting, or perhaps sculpture. Have you ever entertained the notion of taking on an apprentice?"

"My dear, a philistine like yourself has no need of an apprenticeship."

Luli preened under the insult, obviously mistaking "philistine" for a compliment. She probably thought the word meant "expert" or "master."

"I am not giving up on you yet," she said, the questing hand returning. "I think I can help you explore a side of yourself you never knew existed."

Chiaro felt himself start to break out in a cold sweat. His stiff collar was rubbing his neck, and he resisted the urge to just roll over like a dog and start scratching luxuriously-such a move would probably be greeted with undisguised horror, but the image was so vivid, so real in his mind that his shoulders started to shake with silent laughter. Minister Chan, seated to his left, stared at him as if he had gone mad. His expression clearly said, "What is the matter with you?" Chiaro froze. He then realized that the emperor had been speaking and now the whole table had stopped and was staring at him.

_Oh, fuck, _he thought. He hoped to God that the emperor didn't think he had been laughing at him, at whatever it was that Chiaro had been too oblivious to hear him saying. He risked a cautious glance at the emperor's face, seated far, far away, down at the head of the table, and saw that the man was glaring. _Oh, God_, he thought, _I am so fucked._

Luckily, the thing that happened next made everyone-the emperor included-forget about Chiaro's small slip in decorum. . .

* * *

_Vida _

Outside the dining hall doors, Vida's mind was wandering.

In the silence of the grand hallway, Vida found herself drifting over to the dragon's pulse mural, pulled by the magnetism of its beguiling, swirling colors, its siren hues. Ah, alchemy! Vida flexed her hands within the confine of the rubber gloves she was wearing-rubber, because she had been working on a technique that would allow for the conduction of electricity through her whip, electrifying it, increasing its deadliness by leaps and bounds. She had been working on the arrays, in a manner which bordered on obsession, that would allow for the perfect spark, the perfect balance of transmuted energy. In the vast space of the imperial gardens, she practiced, day after day, seeking the correct balance that would make her technique perfect. Alchemy-along with concise, calculated, ruthless combat-was all that she ever thought about.

Alchemy was her art.

There was a sound, a whisper of foot steps on the floor behind her, and Vida whirled suddenly. Ready, but still a fraction of a moment too late. A weapon-unknown, unidentified-smashed into the right side of her face, shattering her mask and sending her flying to the floor. Blood oozed, dripped into her right eye. "I'm sorry, Vida, but the emperor must die-for the sake of the Lui clan; it must be done." Her partner, her mirror, then: Dewu. In an instant he was there and gone, a shadow flown into the night, set on the wings of an assassin's intent. Blood dripped on the cold stones of the foyer; she couldn't see out of her right eye and her cheek bone felt pummeled, cracked.

She did not care.

She was up and off the floor, hot on Dewu's heels, speeding toward the direction of the dining hall's now ominously open-double doors. A chorus of shouts, a choir of shrieks issued forth from within. _He should have finished me off, _thought Vida. Dewu was an idiot; if he thought to show her mercy because she was a woman, well, then he was a fool. And Vida could not abide fools.

And she would show him no mercy.

* * *

_Chiaro _

"Is there something amusing you wish to share with the rest of the table, Master Chiaro?"

The emperor's words caught and hung in the air like a poisonous, nebulous cloud. This was a nightmare, thought Chiaro. A ridiculous, goddamn nightmare. "No, your highness," he managed to say, congratulating himself on how calm he sounded, before downing the full glass of Xingian wine that was sitting in front of him. _Can everyone stop looking at me now? _Chiaro tapped his glass, signaling his need for a refill. Hell, he was going to need a whole lot of refills, in order to get through this night.

Beside him, Luli let out an ear-piercing scream.

So many things happened all at once: one moment, everyone had been looking at Chiaro because they thought (wrongly) that he'd been laughing at the emperor; the next, there appeared a masked, black assassin. The man leapt onto the table, sending plates and glasses flying in all directions like random stray bullets, with a katana sword raised over his head, his thunderous steps taking him closer, closer to the emperor who sat frozen at the head of the table. Chiaro sat, opened mouth, glass in hand, helpless to do anything except watch the crazed attacker's progress.

And then: there was Vida, face unmasked and bloodied, hell bent on pursuit. She leapt onto the table, unfurled her whip from her waist and flicked it with deadly, elegant aim toward the assassin. It caught his throat and she snapped it, the force of it driving his legs out from under him. And then, with the very blood that was dripping from her face, Vida knelt down to draw an array onto the table's surface. It flared to life, brilliant, arcing, up through her whip and over the poor man's neck: a white, hot electrical charge suddenly filled the air. The assassin screamed, and there was the smell of burning flesh, and Chiaro thought it was the most horrible combination of sound and smell that he'd ever had the misfortune to experience. Vida, face bloodied and expression calculating, gave the whip a hard, vicious yank and-

-the assassin's head bounced, then rolled, smoking and charred, to a stop by the centerpiece in the middle of the table.

Luli let out another shriek and promptly fainted into Chiaro's lap. Minister Chan turned and vomited into one of the soup pots. The emperor was staring, like a shop window dummy, in open mouthed disbelief. Chiaro, seeing that his wine glass had been refilled, took another long, drawn out swig, and pushed Luli out of his lap. Well, at least nobody was looking at him anymore.

_Maybe,_ he thought, _I should attend palace dinners more often. . . _

End chapter 2.


	3. Chapter 3

_For Just Funning (of course). And who contributed some dialogue to the dinner scene section. . .  
_

Chapter 3: Silk and Saving Graces

_Chiaro_

Dragons again.

After the incident with the mural in the palace entryway two years ago, Chiaro swore to himself that he would never paint another dragon symbol ever again. But now he was going to do it. His hand paused in the air, hovering; brush hesitant, but at the ready. _No, this was right._ He looked down at his color palette: deep, royal purple, icy, silvery blue, passionate plum, and a gentle dove gray. _Absolutely right._ He broke through the concrete wall of his own reservations and began to paint. It was different, but it felt right: better than right. And as was his way, Chiaro felt the darkness that had been enveloping him begin to dissolve, driven back into place, defeated, driven away by his own overwhelming focus--his love--for the task at hand. He felt nothing now but his own need to create: for shape, form, and color. And in the fading, amber light of his studio, in a silence that been desolate, soul-renting, Chiaro felt himself, for the first time in a long time, able to breathe freely again. . .

* * *

_Vida_

The fuhrer of Amestris, along with his entourage, was to be received in the Imperial grand hall that night.

Vida, as palace arms master and head of the emperor's private guard, was to attend--both formally and as the emperor's private security. Ever since that incident with the traitorous Dewu from a year ago, the palace guard literally lived in fear of the "Iron Maiden." Even now, as she swept through the palace halls, scarlet robes whispering around her formidable frame, she could hear the whispering, almost actually feel the quaking of the men who were left cowering in her wake. A slight smile pulled at the Maiden's lips, and a sheen of satisfaction gleamed in her now mismatched eyes. It did not matter that she was a woman and only half Xingian. The emperor prized only skill, and Vida had more than proven that she had what it took to be arms master and trainer of assassins.

"Mistress Vida!"

Vida froze. Before the door to her private chamber was a little boy--a street urchin, judging by all the dirt and unkempt clothes--who was holding a large white box tied with string made from hemp. The little boy dropped immediately to his knees in respect. He held the box, which was almost as big as him, out in front of him in offering. Then he said, "Master Chiaro bade me bring you this."

Vida was stunned. She had not seen the painter since that night, that awful night when the emperor's private guard had arrested him and thrown him into the palace dungeons. She tried--tried and failed--to not hear again his voice, and the actual begging, pleading, that she thought she would never hear come out of his mouth. It had been too terrible, even for the likes of her. _"Cut off his right hand, that little bastard will never paint again!" _That had been the emperor's orders, and in a moment of absolute insanity--or perhaps something else entirely--Vida had asked the emperor not to do it. She had never asked anyone for anything. _"But your highness, surely there must be another fitting punishment--why waste, why destroy such skill? Is he not the greatest painter in all of Xing? Is it not you who desires to retain the very best, the most skilled, above all else?"_ The emperor had hesitated then, and in that tiny space of hope, Vida had leapt in, offering another option: _"Let it be the left."_

It still hurt--even now--the memory of those words, coming from her own lips.

Vida took the box and dismissed the boy with a few coins. She entered her chambers: they were stark, monk-like in their lack of character, the only real decor being a wealth of weaponry that hung from the walls and wicked-looking, metal instruments that crouched, like coiled, silvery snakes, on the floor. She lay the box down on a table and began to untie the string. For some reason, her fingers--their motions usually so sure, so deft--were trembling.

She lifted the lid. There, nestled in a wealth of crackling rice paper, was a bolt of dark, shimmering, purple silk. She lifted the silk from the box and allowed the whole of it to unfurl down to the floor. What she held in her hands was a kimono: a gorgeous, hand-painted kimono, made from a glistening, dark violet silk. An image of a dragon, elaborately done in delicate silver and pale blue hues, curved over the right side of the robe from top to bottom: it shone, gleamed, writhing and alive, caught in the low light of her chambers. On the back, another beautifully rendered silver dragon coiled around a blue, watery earth, the symbol for Xingian alchemy and an easily recognizable replica of the mural from the grand hallway. Vida felt her vision begin to blur and swim.

It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

Vida then noticed a card left in the box, and she picked it up and held it before the light. On it were five little words, words that nearly ruined the moment for her:

_You're wearing the wrong color._

* * *

_Chiaro_

Chiaro was grinning form ear to ear.

Roy Mustang, the fuhrer of Amestris himself, had just left his studio. Chiaro was grinning because he felt sure--with an optimism that was new, even to him--that Mustang would find Edward, and a happy ending would come out of this sad, complicated little tale that he had dared to involve himself in. He had not sacrificed his left hand for nothing, he told himself. That, at least was a small consolation to him. And he could still paint. In the end, he knew, the majesty of Art would sustain him. He got up and went to his work table and opened the little pots filled filled with colors. _Hmmm. . . what to paint next?_

A loud, aggressive knock sounded at his door.

"Enter," he called, thinking that perhaps Mustang had come back. The door opened with a bang, and loud, clattering foot steps clicked across his floorboards. _Clicked._

Oh, the sound of iron. . .

Chiaro turned to find Vida, the palace arms master, standing right behind him. She looked enraged. And she was wearing his kimono. He glanced away from her expression and his eyes instead took in his own handiwork, and what he saw there pleased him. _Yes, that's much better, _he thought, as if he had fixed some offensive piece of scenery that had gone all wrong and had been annoying him with its offensive set of aesthetics. _The right colors. _His eyes swept back up to her face. She still looked angry.

"What do you mean, I'm wearing the wrong color?"

Chiaro arched an eyebrow. Obviously, the woman didn't understand color, anymore than he could understand alchemy. Otherwise, she would know that black hair and pale skin such as hers would need a cold, icy palette. Winter hues: dark, dusky blues and purples and subtle shades of somber gray. Cold colors. _Icy colors for an icy woman, _thought Chiaro.

Before Chiaro had a chance to put this into words, Vida turned away, and she said (though it seemed to take a lot of effort), "Do you still want to do my portrait?"

This statement shocked him. Chiaro thought he would never, ever hear those words pass her lips. Not after what had happened.

"But you threw a bottle at my head when I asked!" he blurted.

"It's because you threw a paint brush at mine!" she retorted. And Chiaro looked confused, bewildered. Then he smiled--a rather impish, mischievous smile--and said:

"I'm sorry. I've thrown so many paint brushes at people in the past, I'm sure I don't remember. Um, which one was it?"

And then she laughed. A dark, smoky kind of laugh that jarred, jarred but tingled, like a good shot of his favorite whisky. _Amber liquid in a glass. _ He had never heard such a sound from her before, ever.

But. . . he found that he kind of liked it.

"The painting," Vida reminded him, her voice suddenly all business again. "You will make it like you did Mr. Elric's, right? You won't make me look like one of those simpering princesses--"

"--that's not possible," Chiaro immediately interjected.

Vida smiled. It was a new look for her, and Chiaro found himself studying it--studying her, already, as he did all his potential subjects. He felt himself begin to glow with a familiar warmth, one which spread, like a catching fire, through the rest of his limbs: a feeling of anticipation, of standing on a cliff, just before falling over. Falling, then flying.

It was going to be a good painting.

"Tomorrow then." And she turned and swept back toward the door, a whirling flurry of purple, blue and silver silk. _Perfect, _thought Chiaro.

It was amazing what the right set of colors could do. . .

End/Fin.


End file.
